


we saw the stars when they hid from the world

by spikedapple



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Road Trips, harry's idea of a road trip is literally drinking and fucking in different places, peter wants to do touristy things, they compromise (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikedapple/pseuds/spikedapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Harry are (unsurprisingly) awful at road trips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we saw the stars when they hid from the world

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from Step by Vampire Weekend! Uh, I don't really know where I was planning on going with this fic, but here it is in all its 10k+ glory, I guess. 
> 
> This is also the first thing I've finished in three (four ???) years, so I hope it's not too bad ???

1.

The diner they end up at after about three and a half hours of aimless driving and their stubborn refusal to consult neither strangers nor their perfectly functioning GPS for help is, decidedly, not so much of a place to get _actual sustenance_ as it is to get rubbery scraps (that somewhat resemble meat) for the best prices in town – or so the faded poster out front says. Harry turns his nose up and sniffs, because this is the _only_ diner in town and the poster was purposely misleading tourists, etc, before Peter flicks a pea at him and says, “Shut up and eat.”

Harry takes a bite out of the burger Peter ordered for him, before he abruptly places it back on the plastic plate. He reaches over to Peter’s side of the booth to grab a fork and a knife, and proceeds to cut the soggy cheeseburger into seven perfect cubes. Peter stares at him, face a picture of horror and bewilderment in equal measure.

“Harry”, Peter starts, “Har – you, you don’t eat diner burgers like. Like, this isn’t one of your hundred dollar Parisian couture burgers dipped in edible gold. This is an undercooked soggy _mess_ , in a shit diner. You eat them with your hands.”

Harry shrugs and pointedly stabs his fork into his third scarily immaculate burger-cube. He lifts it up and chews it like he savors every bit of the dirty oil and questionable ingredients. Peter knows he’s doing this just to spite him; he sees shocking cerulean bore into his own eyes from under unfairly long eyelashes, maintaining and dropping eye contact at the most annoying intervals, almost as if playing an antagonizing game of hide and seek. Harry’s stupidly red lips turn up into a smirk, like he knows exactly what Peter is thinking, and Peter shakes his head before reaching to snatch Harry’s entire plate away.

 _Peter, what the fuck?_ is already implied without the need to exchange any words at all, and Harry’s prepared to start another round of their (embarrassingly) immature bickering when Peter hands him his own half-eaten burger instead. Harry stares at the burger, before staring at Peter – who in turn gives him a devastating set of puppy eyes until he finally accepts the fucking burger.

Peter beams at him. “There you go! Congratulations, you’re eating like an average human being again. I’ll wash every last bit of snobby private school out of you.”

Harry scoffs at him and mutters “we’ll see about that, Parker”, but he takes a large bite out of the burger anyway.

 

2.

Neither of them actually _know_ what people do on road trips. They made this discovery the night Harry catches Peter on a bright pink website advertising FUN THINGS TO DO WITH THE BOY OF YOUR DREAMS WHILE ON THE ROAD! Peter tells him it was a pop-up ad, but Peter often forgets that he’s not the only genius that exists on this side of the hemisphere, with Gwen being the only one on the other.

“Don’t people usually just take dumb touristy photos and smoke and listen to, like, indie music or something?”, Peter asks in a sad attempt to divert attention away from the website (that Harry notices Peter _minimized_ , not closed). Harry, being the saint he is, decides to throw him a bone as he turns to lie on his stomach on the lumpy motel mattress. He could’ve afforded to stay in five-star hotels with pools and chandeliers and ceilings that don’t leak, but when Peter spent at least ten minutes lecturing him about the authenticity of _real, proper road trips_ and _an exciting experience_ and _stepping out of your silk-linen comfort zone_ , Harry threw his hands up, rolled his eyes and went along with whatever romanticized idea Peter had at that point in time.

“You just described an entire Lana del Rey music video, I’m pretty sure”, Harry says.

Peter rolls his eyes, and they both sneer the word _hipster_ at each other like the world’s foulest curse. Peter turns back to his laptop and Harry flicks his phone to luminescent life, and they both remain in their digital haze of silence for a while longer before Harry turns to Peter, biting his bottom lip and fixing Peter with a look that’s either pleading or seductive –Peter can’t quite tell the difference most days— as he says, “I think there are a bunch of other road trip-type things to do that you haven’t mentioned.”

“Oh, really”, Peter says flatly, because Harry is always obvious when it comes to asking for sex, but he can’t even bring himself to turn him down although he’s in the middle of messaging Gwen and his Aunt May because Harry’s still staring at him, really _looking_ at him, and Peter feels his mouth go dry as he sees the fisheye of himself reflected in a kaleidoscope of blue – and, what right does he have to turn down something so beautiful, anyway? _None at all_ , Peter decides as he shuts his laptop and makes his way toward their single bed.

Harry breaks into a grin even as Peter climbs over him, mouthing sweet nothings into the pale expanse of his porcelain neck. Peter moves slowly, feather-like touches ghosting the bare surface of Harry’s skin, pressing kisses like an aubade into the spaces between his collarbones, before Harry growls and pulls Peter down for a rough kiss, sentiments like _don’t treat me like I’m going to break_ unsaid but heard. Peter adjusts accordingly, like he always does, because regardless of what it is they’re doing, Harry’s still the same Prada princess who demands at least the slightest bit of control of any given situation.

Peter doesn’t mind, not really, because it’s just another part of Harry that he’s growing fond of, and also because Harry tastes like expensive coffee and salt and alcohol – and he doesn’t even care if the kiss is sloppy and hot and dirty because it’s _Harry_ and no matter how many times the blond parts his lips for him, Peter always explores his mouth like it’s something perfect and sweet. He can’t get enough of him, and if Harry’s desperate moans and nails that press crescents into Peter’s skin under his shirt are anything to go by, the feeling’s mutual.

Harry pulls away to properly take his shirt off, and he’s in the process of removing his increasingly tight jeans when he notices Peter staring at him. He turns his chin up in a way that’s meant to be a challenge. Peter ignores it as he helps Harry get rid of his jeans, brushing his spindly fingers against Harry’s hard member, and he grins when it draws a frustrated moan from the blond beneath him.

“Peter, you fucking _tease_ ”, he says, voice broken in only the most aureate sense of the word.

Peter grins at him in response, even as he’s got the words _you’re beautiful_ on his tongue like a mantra, whispering them in a nearly prayer-like concentration as he pulls out Harry’s leaking cock. Harry whines and breathes heavy, cheeks dusted crimson gleaming in a coat of sweat, and Peter watches his expressions, capturing the most miniscule of changes in the knit of his brows or the tremble of his lips because he’s absolutely perfect, even as Peter presses his fingers against the head of Harry’s cock, smearing precum. He runs his fingers up and down Harry’s length, gently at first, tormenting him in the most elusory way, before he tightens his grip. Peter watches as Harry bites his lip in an attempt to bottle up the moans that are threatening to spill out, and he’s about to say something when the mattress gives way and they fall to the dusty floor of their shitty motel room.

 

3.

The receptionist doesn’t actually _ask_ them how exactly the mattress broke, or why it is that two fully grown men were sharing a single bed, but from the way the middle-aged woman is avoiding eye contact, she’s got more than a few guesses in right direction. Peter, at least, has the mind to look sheepish even as he tries (and fails) to hide his grin, but Harry doesn’t even seem fazed as he passes her the keys and slides a hundred dollar note to, as he so eloquently put it, get mattresses that (a) aren’t three decades old, and (b) do not smell like bad sex.

 

4.

“We only have to be there for twenty minutes, Har, thirty tops. Come _on_ ”, Peter says. He cringes a little when he hears the obvious pleading in his voice, but he’s desperate enough to soldier through it. (He also gets the feeling that Harry’s actually _enjoying_ this; if anyone’s enough of an asshole to obtain even the slightest bit of joy from Peter’s rather pathetic begging, it’d be him.)

Harry’s frown suggests irritation, but Peter’s known him long enough to see the amusement hidden in the way his eyes light up. He lets out an exaggerated sigh before he says, “Fine, okay.”

Harry begrudgingly pulls their obnoxiously loud rental truck into a tight space between a minivan and a sedan, and he hasn’t even got it properly parked before Peter swings his door open, nearly scrapes the white off the minivan, and clambers off. Harry stares at him, bewildered and experiencing something akin to secondhand embarrassment, and casually wonders –not for the first time— how he fell for someone who was literally tripping over himself to go see a fucking _Spiderman musical_. He pulls on a pair of shades that are almost definitely overpriced before stepping out of the truck, regardless of the greys that blend out the typically blue stretch of sky – he’d much rather look like a complete fucking _tool_ than to have someone recognize the Oscorp heir at an event as… _interesting_ as this one.

He sees Peter in the middle of the queue to the entrance and squeezes his way past excited, sticky children and their tired-looking mothers. Peter’s grinning at him, or more accurately, grinning at how uncomfortable Harry seems to be in the midst of these loud, whining children – _tiny demons_ , his brain helpfully supplies— and Harry has half the mind to punch him in the face, kick down some of these intolerable brats and drive over to the closest bar because he is not nearly drunk enough for this. A girl from somewhere behind them screams, which results in a chain reaction forming the world’s most agonizing choir of cries, and Harry glares at Peter, who in turn says, “I’ll make it up to you tonight, okay, we’ll have the most amazing – holy s _hitwe’renexthurryupandpayforthetickets!_ ”

The girl at the ticket booth is a teenager with a septum piercing who radiates the type of angst and cold intimidation that Harry finds somewhat comical on a person forced into a Spiderman cap. Her tag reads _Daphne_ , and her voice is unpleasant as she says in complete monotone: “Can I help you.”

“Um, yes”, Peter says, an octave too high to sound casual, before he clears his throat and continues, “Two tickets for the, um, two o’ clock show?”

Daphne blinks at them once, twice before her lips turn into a smirk. It’s fairly obvious that she thinks they’re both either morons or a complete joke, but Peter’s still hoping she’ll forgo the typical sarcastic bitching that comes with being an underpaid high-schooler, even as she pops a piece of gum into her mouth and looks at them with a twinkle in her eyes that Peter recognizes as trouble from his days of being shoved into lockers. He suddenly doesn’t feel very keen on the musical, and Harry feels him tense up.

“Sorry, but we’re a strictly pedophile-free zone. No kids, no go”, she says in a voice that suggests she couldn’t care less about the wellbeing of these children, “Unless you have extra cash to splurge.”

Peter gapes at her and he seems to be at a loss for what exactly to say or do, because how the fuck do you respond to _that_ , before Harry pulls him to the side, throwing in a smile and a quick, “How about you go fuck yourself?”

They sit in the truck for a while after; they don’t say anything and they don’t make any effort to drive off as they let the radio deejay fade into background noise. Peter doesn’t _seem_ upset or angry, not really, but Harry’s been Peter’s boyfriend for almost a year now, has been his best friend for even longer, and although about ten years of their friendship was spent apart, he’s taken to relearning Peter’s old habits and mapping out his new ones. It’s not the easiest thing to do, finding out that he’s maybe not the person who knows every little facet of Peter (that’d be Gwen), but he’s _trying_ at least, so when Peter’s eyebrows knit just that little bit more than usual, Harry says, “We should break into the theater.”

 

5.

It isn’t so much of an actual theater as it is a rundown dome in the middle of nowhere that may have once held thought-provoking plays but has been left to rot in hell. They make it a point to avoid the ticket booth out front, because even if Daphne’s taking a cigarette break and occupying herself with examining her nails, they still doubt they’d be able to make it past her without breaking into a fit of giggles.

“Okay, maybe this wasn’t such a great idea”, Peter says with a frown once they’ve made it –very conspicuously— to the staff entrance situated at the back of the dome. He tries the handle a couple times before he lets out an exasperated sigh. “You know what? The musical probably isn’t even that good. Their Spidey suit is probably printed _cotton_. We should go.”

Harry doesn’t seem to hear a word he says, because he holds onto Peter’s wrist as he makes to leave, produces a bobby pin from somewhere within the depths of his pockets and tries to pick the lock. He _looks_ like he knows what he’s doing, eyes focused and lips pressed into a thin line, but as Peter leans closer to get a proper look, Harry’s more or less just jamming the pin wherever it’d fit. Peter wants to tell him to just let it go, that they should just get a move on (to where exactly – they don’t even know); instead, he licks his lips and tells Harry to step aside.

Peter sucks in a breath; he’s a good five metres away from the door by then and he’s at least 75% sure this’ll work, but the other 25% is screaming at him to Stop This Tomfoolery Right The Fuck Now, Parker. The latter is, of course, muted within the recesses of Peter’s mind as he charges towards the door and runs into it, slamming the side of his arm against the cold, chipping wood.

The door budges, and they’re in.

“So you _do_ have some strength in these things”, Harry says as he reaches over to squeeze Peter’s bicep.

“They’d need plenty to hold _you_ down”, Peter says with a grin. Harry swats his forearm and rolls his eyes.

They walk down a narrow hall that probably leads to the exit from backstage; the brick walls are painted a peeling white and faded posters of past productions line their way. The monochrome faces seem to emanate life, to conjure up a vividness that no longer exists, and when Harry looks at the eyes of the old performers, they seem to stare back. Even then, Peter seems to be completely at home; Harry catches him as he smiles to himself, almost as if sharing an inside joke with an old friend.

They sneak into the performance hall and find a corner in the far back to squeeze in; they’ve got a few tired mothers hiding for a smoke seated nearby, but at least they’re relatively far from the captivated audience of toddlers. Peter’s at the edge of his seat, excitement evident in the gleam of his eyes, but in all honestly, the play is so fantastically, laughably bad that Harry wants to smack him over his head for going through all this trouble.

Peter seems to realize this too, and his smile drops into a confused frown, which eventually dissolves into a flat stare. “I… This – this is just. Wow.”

“ _Wow_ is definitely a word I’d use”, Harry says with fingers pressed against his temple as the onstage Spiderman attempts to web someone in a green leotard (the Green Goblin?) with what Harry is fairly certain is whipped cream. “Somewhere, Stan Lee is rolling in his grave.”

“Stan Lee is still alive”, Peter says.

“Hypothetical grave, whatever”, Harry says as he waves a dismissive hand. He pauses for a bit before he continues, “Remind me again, _why_ were you so pumped to see this?”

Spiderman accidentally shoots the whipped cream right into the supposed Green Goblin’s eye, and he falls down to clutch at it, his screams of _IT BURNS, IT BURNS_ muffled as Spiderman rushes to his side, a string of words that shouldn’t yet be heard by children leaving his mouth.

Peter swallows and runs a hand through his already tousled hair. “I don’t know, man. My… my mom and dad used to take me to these shows. Back before they – they, um, left.”

The pregnant pause that comes after that feels heavy in their stunted silence, and Harry sorts of wishes he didn’t ask in the first place. He’s not good at dealing with another person’s problems, God knows he can’t even handle his own, and his usual course of action involving lots of drinking, smoking and sex seems to be out of the question right now. He sees Peter’s fixed look out of the corner of his eyes, his tense posture, and he wishes so hard to be someone else right now, someone kind and comforting and understanding, someone so _un_ -Harry Osborn that they’d at least know how to respond.

“I mean, it’s no big deal now”, Peter says eventually, “I just felt nostalgic, is all.”

Harry wants to say something, something like _I know how you feel_ or _It’s okay_ but he doesn’t think he can tread that path without entering _I hate my father_ territory, and he is not going to have that conversation, not with Peter, not when he feels so emotionally handicapped. He doesn’t know what to say and he’s so angry with himself for it, but he reaches over to lace his fingers with Peter’s, and when Peter turns to him with surprise in his brows but a quiet “thank you” in his eyes, Harry says, “Let’s get out of here.”

 

6.

They stop by a bar afterwards, because regardless of his claims otherwise, Harry is maybe a little bit of an alcoholic. It’s dark and sticky and smells like vomit, but it’s the only bar they’ve found so far that actually _carded_ people and therefore significantly reduced the amount of loud excited teenagers, so they count it as a win anyway. Peter orders a whiskey, because in all honesty, he hasn’t been in many bars and whiskey is the only thing he knows that _won’t_ make him sound like an idiot, and Harry orders something foreign (and expensive) sounding.

There are more than a handful of middle-aged folk doing really bad karaoke in the centre of the bar, and Peter grins as he says, “They sound just like you, when you’re in the shower and all.”

 Harry scoffs and chugs down the remains of his drink.

“You’re listening to me as I shower now?”, Harry says as he signals the bartender for another glass, “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you, Parker.”

Peter watches as Harry swallows down the drink, watches his parted lips and flushed face and his mused up hair, and he just really, _really_ takes in how beautiful Harry is. Of course, he’s always known Harry was good-looking; he remembers being nine when Aunt May had said something about Harry growing up to be a “fine young man”, and he remembers being seventeen and seeing Harry on the cover of magazines. What he _doesn’t_ remember – or, at least, constantly forgets – is that Harry is absolutely stunning in an otherworldly sense. Peter drinks up every bit of it, and by the time he realizes he’s been staring, Harry’s already got a smirk playing on his features.

“Like what you see?”, Harry says with a light tilt to his voice. His mouth is controlled and flirty but his eyes are alive with excitement and something Peter hopes is longing, even as he lays his head against the bar counter.

Peter would say “ _obviously_ ”, but he doesn’t want to give Harry that satisfaction, so instead, he leans over to close the space between their lips, and when Harry’s lips part pliant against his tongue, Peter thinks this is the answer they’d both prefer, really.

Their kiss is slow and magnetic, and Peter feels like he’s drowning, like he’s being pulled into a pool of mist and haze and nebulas. Harry sucks on his tongue with a rare gentleness, and Peter knows this is his way of healing – his way of trying to mend and fix and smooth over the parts where Peter’s jagged with memories and thoughts he’d rather forget. It’s Harry’s way of saying “I’m sorry I couldn’t help” and “You are so much more than you think you are” and “I love you so, so much”, because words were never enough for him, words will never _be_ enough, and Peter _gets_ him.

 

7.

It’s a humid two in the afternoon when Peter pulls over at what is apparently The World’s Largest Toothpick, because although he and Harry have both realized that this isn’t so much of a road trip as it is an excuse to continuously get drunk in different places, Peter still thinks they should at least _try_ to be a little more touristy. Harry thinks this is a stupid idea, but Peter buys him a can of cheap 1% alcohol beer and a battery-operated handheld fan from 7 Eleven, so he stops complaining—

– at least until he sees the actual toothpick.

Harry makes some very loud complaints about how the toothpick is smaller than the ones he gets in French restaurants, which is a lie, and argues with the tour guide who comes over to shush him. The tour guide actually starts to get angry, which is a terrifying prospect, because his well-built muscles are nearly visible through his thin THE WORLD’S LARGEST TOOTHPICK ™ T-shirt as he towers over Harry, who, with his dumb skinny jeans and dumb Prada sunglasses, looks severely non-threatening.

Peter wants to bury his face in his hands as tourists start to crowd around the arguing duo. Harry doesn’t even seem to notice the gaping crowd (or maybe he does, if the small smirk playing on his lips is anything to go by) as he makes another inappropriate jab at the tour guide, and _really_ , what are they – in fourth grade? Peter can’t really tell by this point because they’ve resorted to _dick jokes_ , and he doesn’t know if he can take any more of this.

“Maybe the only reason you’re so defensive about the fucking toothpick is because it reminds you of your underdeveloped dick”, Harry says, which is actually really stupid, because the toothpick is nearly four metres long, and Peter just wants to cry because _Harry, oh my God,  stop, you’re not even drunk, how are you being_ this _ridiculous?_

The tour guide seems to have shed his last ounce of patience right then, because he curls his hand into a fist and aims right for Harry’s nose. Harry’s eyes shut tight behind the tinted lenses and he anticipates pain and maybe a broken nose, but it doesn’t come. Peter’s somehow conjured himself up between them and he’s got the tour guide’s fist held tight, and Harry’s just at a complete loss, because how does Peter do all these things and why does Peter put up with him?

“Haha, toothpicks, amirite? Gets me riled up every time! Well, nice knowing you, bye!”, Peter says in a rush as he drops the stunned tour guide’s hand, grabs Harry by the shoulder, and makes a dash for anywhere that _isn’t_ here.

They make it to an ice-cream stand nearby without a hitch, and Harry’s in the middle of picking a flavor when Peter flicks his arm, then his thigh, then his face.

“Ow, Peter, what the fuck?”, Harry asks, tone annoyed but not exactly angry, because Peter _did_ just save him from getting his face pummeled.

“You idiot, you stupid fucking dumbass”, Peter hisses, “Do you always have to pick a fight with everyone?”

“Well”, Harry says with a shrug as he points to the tub of pistachio, “I didn’t get popular in boarding school by having a clean mouth.”

Peter throws his hands up in exasperation and mutters something that sounds like suspiciously like “Why Harry Osborn? Why couldn’t it have been someone nice or sweet? Why, God, why?”

Harry pretends not to notice him as he hands Peter a cone of rocky road, and makes to sit at one of the shaded tables. Peter begrudgingly accepts it, because not only is he secretly glad that Harry knows his favourite flavor, he also hasn’t had ice-cream since Gwen told him she’s moving to London.

“How’d you do that just now? Whatever that ninja shit was”, Harry says as he effectively halts Peter’s thoughts of how much easier things were when he wasn’t dating someone who literally prowled the streets for trouble. “I might need to know, because half the people I talk to look like they want to strangle me and the other half look like they _can_ strangle me.”

Peter scoffs, and then laughs. “You are _ridiculous_. What’s wrong with you?”

Harry’s still got his lips stretched into a smile even as his voice dips slightly into a teasing tone that’s hiding an undertone of bitterness and spite when he says, “Didn’t get enough love from daddy, obviously.”

 

8.

They’re both standing in the only patch of shade they can find by the highway, and it’s been seven minivans, three oil tankers and one cyclist (Harry’s counted) since their truck broke down. The sun’s particularly unforgiving today; Harry’s been sweating buckets in his muscle tank, and out of the corner of his eye he can see that Peter isn’t unaffected by this either. He’s flushed and sweaty and beautiful, sunlight glistening off the disgustingly sticky surface of his slowly reddening skin, but that’s besides the point.

Harry wants to pretend this is a complete fluke. He would _love_ to say that he hadn’t a clue why the truck stopped moving, or why they had to push it off the highway before being attacked by a very angry chorus of honks and _get off the road_ s, but he knows, he _knows_ it’s coming:

“I told you so”, Peter says, always ready to play the part of the five-year-old.

He’s pouting – Peter is _nineteen_ , nearly twenty now, and he’s fucking _pouting_. Harry would laugh if it didn’t make him want to punch him in the face, and also kiss him maybe. He realizes most things Peter does makes him feel that way, and in lieu of coping with this summer day epiphany, Harry puts on his shades and focuses all his efforts on ignoring Peter.

Peter’s in the middle of a rather accurate imitation of Harry last night (“What do you mean we need to fill up the gas? It’s practically full, don’t be a dumbass, Petey.”) when Harry’s phone goes off. Harry thanks whoever it is for the distraction, even as his brain registers the caller’s voice as Felicia’s, and Felicia only calls when something extremely bad happens.

“Harry”, she says, and Harry notices the slight crack in her voice that’s a rare display of either nerves or dysphoria, “We’ve – we’ve got a problem, here at Oscorp.”

He hears her swallow and decides to wait for her to continue. An intake of breath, before: “You don’t need to come back yet, or anything. But, um, you see—”

Harry notices she’s using The Tone; the voice she uses to let people know they’re being let go, the voice she uses to tell Norman Osborn that a deal with an investor just flopped, the voice she uses to say something went wrong and there’s a new coffin ready and shiny and _we’re so sorry_. He’s got an IQ most people could only dream of having, but he doesn’t even need any of that to know what she’s going to say.

“Your father has passed on.”

Harry tunes out Felicia’s _“Harry? Are you there?_ ”, tunes out everything else really, because how the fuck is he supposed to feel about _that_? Sad? Angry, because his father had been taken ahead of his time? Fuck that, his father hadn’t cared enough for any of that to matter to Harry – and yet, there’s a steady thrum of _something_ under his skin, burning like hot steel as it flows through his veins, and all he sees is white.

He doesn’t even notice that he dropped his phone, he doesn’t even remember where he is, until Peter waves a hand in front of his face and drags Harry back to reality. Peter’s saying things like “Hey man, you’re freaking me out” and “Don’t space out on me, Har”, but his eyes shine in concern and worry and _fuck_ if Harry isn’t thankful he’s here right now.

Harry wraps his arms around Peter and buries his face into Peter’s shoulder, and he feels Peter tense up momentarily, but it’s gone the instant after it comes, and Harry just tries to drown himself in the scent of Peter’s cheap deodorant and sweat and warmth. Peter rubs soothing circles into Harry’s back even as he calls for a tow truck to pick them up, and Harry isn’t crying, no, but he feels spineless and broken and he would probably fall if not for Peter’s support, and Harry really doesn’t deserve any of this.

 

9.

They skype Gwen that night, both of them the right amount of drunk and giggly, and the first thing she says is: “Oh my God, I hate you both so much. Do you know what time it is in London? Did you know today is the one day I actually get to _sleep_? I’m planning your murder right now.”

She doesn’t go back to sleep, though, so Harry and Peter decide she can’t be _too_ mad at them, because they both know Gwen is terrifyingly, devastatingly capable of ruining their lives. There had been a point in time where Stark Industries and Oscorp had been vying for her abilities and intellect, and it took Harry several weeks of pleading and Korean barbeque to get Gwen to join them as an intern – and then there had been a whole other issue of trying to get her on the board of directors, but she had London and Oxford and Gwen didn’t want to spend her life fixing Harry’s future fuckups.

“We’re a little bit drunk!”, Harry says excitedly.

Gwen’s image is blurry and unfocused, but Peter still recognizes her signature You Are Both Unbelievable, Why Do I Still Bother look. Her smile is a little bit sad and a little bit fond as she says, “I know.”

“Whaaaaat?”, Peter asks as if Gwen’s just answered the mysteries of the infinite universe, eyes wide like dark shiny pennies. He looks overenthusiastic as he slaps Harry’s back maybe a little too hard to be friendly. Harry, in response, makes a dash for the bathroom and empties his guts into the once pristine toilet bowl.

They had checked into a five-star hotel earlier on, one of the reasons being that it’s the closest to where they’ve got their truck towed, and the other being because Harry was Genuinely Upset and Peter felt so incredibly bad that he forgone his supposed “Real Road Trip” ideals and let Harry check them into a place where he could order all the expensive wine he wanted.

“How much have you even _had_ to drink? I’ve never seen Harry this drunk since, well, _ever_ ”, Gwen says with a yawn.

“Not too much”, Peter says, as he lifts the laptop up to show her their bed –or whatever bits of it that remain visible— that’s got two empty wine bottles and several cans of overpriced beer covering its expensive silk sheets. He’s probably going to feel bad for making the housekeepers clean up their mess in the morning when he can actually think straight, but for now, while he’s still in his alcohol-happy haze, Peter just giggles a little.

Gwen seems to wake up immediately at the sight. “Oh my God, what were you thinking? You’re going to die of alcohol poisoning. You’re going to die of alcohol poisoning, and _I don’t even know what time it is_.”

“Harry’s dad died”, Peter says in a tone that would’ve been flippant if he wasn’t drunk on more types of alcohol than he can name.

“And you decided to deal with it by drinking yourselves half to death?”, Gwen asks, incredulous, “Are you letting Harry influence you with his Rich People way of dealing with things?”

Peter gives her a sad shrug as Harry finally crawls back into bed, smelling a little like vomit and a little like emotional baggage. He falls asleep in Peter’s lap without another word, and it’s with a voice of deep regret and sadness that Peter says, “We need babysitting, Gwen. We need someone to look after us and make sure we aren’t dead in the morning.”

Gwen looks as if she’s about to say something when she stops, and Peter doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, but Gwen looks like she’d fly over from London if it meant that she could break this melancholy and heartbreak they’ve gotten themselves enveloped in.

“You really do”, she agrees.

 

10.

Harry wakes up first the next day at about half past two, and they’ve only got an hour before they have to check out of the hotel. He drags his feet into the bathroom, head throbbing with the beginnings of possibly the worst hangover he’s ever had, and nearly gags at the scent of dried vomit and piss and things he doesn’t want to think about. He makes a mental note to leave the housekeeping staff a massive tip as he steps into the shower.

There are far too many settings and functions available, and Harry’s the type of asshole who actually enjoys playing with the knobs and wasting valuable water, but he’s far too exhausted, both mentally and physically, to do anything besides stand under the showerhead and let the spray wash over him. It’s cold and unpleasant and he feels goosebumps prickle under his skin, but it wakes him up at the very least – and Harry thinks he could use some waking up.

Harry runs a hand through his hair and reaches over to grab the tiny bottle of hotel shampoo, when he hears Peter’s uneven footsteps enter the bathroom. It’s through a yawn that Peter says, “What’re you doin’?”

“Writing a book, couldn’t you tell?”, Harry says with an eye-roll, even as Peter steps into the shower and plucks the bottle of shampoo from his fingers. He hears Peter squeeze out the shampoo before he feels him lathering it through his hair, and Peter hums as he massages the shampoo into Harry’s scalp, something calming about his entire presence as he cards his long fingers through his hair, tugging gently – nearly playfully. Harry feels himself relax under Peter’s touch despite himself.

 “The hangover getting to you yet?”, Peter asks against Harry’s neck. He reaches over to grab the soap bar, and Harry can practically _hear_ the grin in his voice as Peter begins to scrub his back.

“Fuck off”, Harry says, before he changes his mind and decides on: “Fuck you.”

Peter just hums in response, seemingly content with dragging his hands over Harry’s exposed skin, smoothening out his edges and pressing out the tension and stress and anger that Harry always tries to hide but Peter always somehow manages to find. Peter splays his fingers out over the porcelain expanse laid out in front of him, and forgets to catch himself as he lets his hands roam downwards, marking out spaces no one else can. He squeezes Harry’s ass (and grins when he hears the whimper Harry will later deny till his deathbed) and massages it until he’s got Harry’s back arched against him – and it’s a shame that something this beautiful is wasted on him, really.

He probably says that out loud, because Harry scoffs and says: “Overly modest isn’t a good look for you, Pete.”

There’s a pause before Harry continues, voice lowered and tone ghostlike, as if he’s hoping Peter wouldn’t hear him, “You’re wrong about me, anyway.”

Harry doesn’t say it, but Peter hears the _You’re gorgeous, I’m a mess – I’m a mess and now you’re swimming in my filth, and I’m so, so sorry_. Peter frowns then, because although he can still smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke, the nonexistent childhood and salty tears and self-loathing, self-destructive tendencies that line Harry’s existence like its imbedded in him, Peter has never, _ever_ doubted Harry. Not when they were eight, and certainly not now. A slightly more rational part of him tells him that one day, this will all end up in fire and broken glass, but Peter ignores it in favour of turning Harry around to face him.

He presses his lips against Harry’s soft ones, and their kiss is all tongue against teeth and it’s the kind of kiss that make adults cringe because it’s downright _trashy_ , but it’s what they both need right now – something fast, something _easy_. They’re both looking for release in one way or another, and they’re hoping to find it in each other. Peter smiles against Harry’s lips, a genuine one, and when Harry looks at him from under his eyelashes, Peter breaks the kiss and drags his fingertips down Harry’s sides.

“I’m not wrong, y’know. I never am”, Peter says, and he smiles at Harry’s irritated huff that’s all bravado and mock-annoyance. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Or the best worst thing. I’m still figuring it out.”

Harry’s about to respond when he stops in his tracks and loses his words to a stutter, because Peter abruptly drops to his knees and presses his warm tongue against his cock, swirling his tongue around his semi-hard member’s head. Peter drags his tongue along the sides of Harry’s cock, coaxing it into full hardness as his hands fondle Harry’s balls. He pulls off for a bit before leaning in to take Harry’s entire length into his mouth.

Harry actually _whimpers_ then, and Peter wants to laugh but he can’t because he’s got a mouthful of cock, so instead, he sucks harder and hopes for the best because he really doesn’t know what he’s doing. He swirls his tongue and hollows his cheeks as he sucks in what he hopes is an accurate imitation of the absolutely phenomenal blowjobs Harry’s given him, and Peter decides he must be doing _something_ right, because Harry’s fingers are gripping his hair, pulling softly at first, but rougher now as he approaches his climax.

“Fuck. Fuck, oh God, _fuck_ ”, Harry says, words rushed as they tumble out on auto-command, and his voice cracks just as he comes into Peter’s mouth. His hands are still rooted in Peter’s hair, and Peter’s surprised, but he prides himself in swallowing it down. He pulls off Harry’s softening length, and grins.

“Best blowjob ever, or best blowjob ever?”, Peter asks.

“Could use some work”, Harry says, and Peter smacks the back of his head even as he starts to take a proper shower.

 

11.

It’s nearly nine when they finally realize that there’s no way they’re going to be able to find another motel or inn that’s got an available room after their fruitless search of two hours. Peter’s been the unfortunate one driving this entire time, frowning as he had tried to make his way through the poorly lit streets, whilst Harry had made jokes about his driving and drank four cans of beer.

The sky’s an infinite stretch of purples and blues by then, marred only by speckles of glistening stars and distant universes, and Harry’s not sure if it’s the slight intoxication or the warmth of the night that’s talking when he says: “We could always just sleep in the back.”

Peter’s eyes light up and he nearly slaps Harry’s back in excitement, as he rambles on about how this is starting to look like a Real Road Trip and pulls out the sleeping bags and blankets he’s got packed just in case. They lay them out in the back of the truck, forming a nest of sorts, and toss their coats and jackets in too, because they don’t have pillows and they might as well make the most of it. It looks nothing like what romantic comedies have told them, it’s a misshapen square and it hasn’t got pillows or a proper mattress, but they’re proud of it nevertheless. Harry pulls out a bottle of wine from his seemingly unending supply, and they pass it back and forth as they drink and sing and laugh, because what are they even _doing_?

The stars are bright and it’s rare that they ever get a chance to see them, New York’s fantastically bad light pollution drowning them out, and Peter feels tempted for a moment to go grab his camera. He doesn’t, though, because Harry’s pressed up against him, making the most of the space in their tiny truck nest as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. Peter frowns, because Harry doesn’t smoke as much as he used to, nowhere near as bad as the chain-smoker he used to be, but Peter knows for a fact that Harry only smokes when he’s trying to calm himself down (or when he’s thinking about his father, but they don’t talk about that, not anymore).

He bumps his shoulder against Harry’s; a physical anchor and an unspoken _Are you okay_?

Harry doesn’t notice, or he at least pretends not to, and takes a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke twirling and twisting from his lips like silver silk against the dark night sky. He doesn’t look particularly sad, the usual brooding angst expected of Harry Osborn, sure, but then again, Harry’s gotten unfairly good at hiding how he feels, and Peter has only just begun to really understand his minutiae. It actually really frustrates Peter, because he’s Harry’s _boyfriend_ for fuck’s sake, and he wants to help – but Harry’s not letting him help, not letting him in, and okay, maybe he’s not exactly the best at comforting people or finding the right words to say, but he wants to at least get a glimpse of Harry’s mind and its thoughts.

He wants to push, to _make_ Harry talk about his problems and put them out in the open because this constant burying and drowning will drive him mad one day, Peter’s sure of it, but he’s scared. Peter’s just so, so scared he’ll push Harry to the point where he leaves. So, although he wants to ask Harry to talk to him, Peter plucks the cigarette from his fingers, leans in and kisses him instead, inhaling the toxic and poison in the air that’s either the cigarette smoke or the frustration they share.

Harry licks into his mouth before he abruptly pulls away, voice soft as a sigh. “I don’t want to talk about it, Pete. Nice try.”

“It was worth a shot”, Peter says almost nonchalantly as he hands the cigarette back, even as he feels his subconscious scream and yell.

He picks up the abandoned wine bottle and chugs down the remains as he leans into Harry’s neck, and Harry hums a tune that might sound familiar. They know, they both know. They’re both so painfully aware that sex and kisses will never be an adequate substitute for actual words, that this roundabout way they've got of avoiding problems and conflict will end, can only end badly, but for now, they're just happy to exist as they are.

It’s past 2 am and the sky’s a blotchy sort of black when they both fall asleep.

 

12.

They’ve both got their shirts plastered onto their sticky skin by the afternoon, and it’s just their luck that the AC decided to give out on probably one of the hottest days that summer. The radio deejay is almost mocking them – happily announcing the weather and how they’re going to have _clear blue skies for a while, haha, put on your sunscreen kiddos!_ , and Harry’s had enough. He’s an Osborn, he’s the CEO of fucking _Oscorp_ , why the flying fuck should he have to put up with this shitty truck and its constant shortcomings?

Peter snorts when Harry tells him that. “Shut up, Haz, you haven’t stepped into Oscorp for the past, like, eight years.”

“Correction”, Harry says as he slips on a pair of shades, “I stepped in last week to get money for the road trip, fuckhead.”

“Yeah, okay. Now, shut up, I’m tryna listen to the music”, Peter says. He reaches over to turn the volume up when Harry slaps his hand away, looking ninety shades of offended.

“Do you hear this? This is dubstep. Why are we listening to _dubstep_ , Peter? Why are radio stations still playing dubstep?”, Harry asks, and it’s actually rather hilarious how scandalized Harry’s tone and words sound. “I can understand the AC not working. I can tolerate the truck breaking down. But an Osborn should never have to go through this.”

Peter fights the urge to laugh as he puts on his Serious Business face, but it’s a struggle as Harry leans over to aggressively twist the knob to find a frequency playing something he doesn’t adamantly hate. It takes him nearly two whole minutes before he settles on a station playing something Peter thinks is by The Black Keys, and he can’t help but roll his eyes. Harry looks smug (and somewhat relieved) as he crosses his arms and leans back into his seat – that is, until Peter reaches back to switch radio stations.

“Peter, what – _what_ do you think you’re doing? What is this, bad tracks from the 2000s? I don’t want to fucking listen to Celine Dion sing the Titanic song”, Harry says in a fit of frustration, and Peter actually _does_ laugh out loud right then, because Harry is absolutely _ridiculous_. Harry reminds himself to be offended later. Meanwhile, he preoccupies himself with switching frequencies in a scary sort of concentration until he finds another one that isn’t playing anything completely awful.

Peter makes it a point to switch back to a station he knows Harry will hate. Harry does hate it, and he lets Peter know this by hitting the back of his head. They have a mini-war over the radio, and they’re both dreadfully, disturbingly aware of how this is playing along to the plot device of so many cliché road trip movies, especially that one Disney movie about Goofy, and they know it’s going to happen, yet Peter and Harry are both still surprised when the radio jams and the knob falls off.

They hear white noise for a while, before being greeted by a chorus of _You don’t know you’re beautiful, that’s what makes you beautiful_!

Neither of them say anything for a while, before they burst into a fit of giggles. Harry throws his head back, voice light with nothing bearing it down, “After all that fuss, we’re stuck with fucking One Direction.”

“They’re not _that_ bad”, Peter says as he winds down the window, patting the steering wheel in time to the beat, “Baby, you light up my world like nobody else!”

“Oh my God, why do you know the lyrics?”, Harry says, which is kind of hypocritical, because _he_ knows the lyrics.

They sing at the top of their lungs; Peter with one hand on the wheel and the other drumming on the dashboard as Harry sticks his head out of the window and screams the lyrics, both far too loud and far too happy as they pretend that nothing’s wrong and that everything will be all right (because maybe if they keep pretending, some day they’ll actually believe it).

 

 

13.

Peter’s mad at Harry, and for good reason tonight. Harry had physically dragged Peter into a bar, and he doesn’t even care if it’s the only bar in this shitty town or that the DJ has played three different versions of Summertime Sadness or that the bar is _jam packed_ with obnoxious teenagers falling over themselves and ordering the cheapest drinks their fake IDs can get – Peter’s mildly annoyed at those things, yeah, but what Peter’s really mad about is the fact that some douchebag who smells like weed and cheap beer has been buying Harry drinks and chatting him up, and Harry’s been _letting_ him.

“Yeah, well, my mouth’s good at many other things”, Harry says in response to something the guy says, and Peter wants to roll his eyes so far back that they’ll pop out of their sockets, because he’s heard Harry say that line approximately 78 times already. The guy trying to pick Harry up, on the other hand, grins even wider as he leans in to whisper into Harry’s ear.

Peter waits for Harry to laugh in the guy’s face and leave, because he’s seen this play out a surprisingly large amount of times before and during their relationship – a random guy offers him a drink, Harry accepts and starts to flirt, they order more drinks, and once Harry’s alcohol quota has been filled, he grabs Peter’s arm and says _I have a boyfriend, but thanks for the drinks_ , and they leave.

This time’s a little bit different though. Harry’s on his third drink now, and he’s still batting his eyelashes and biting his lip. Peter feels his eyebrows knit, and he’s supposed to be used to this, used to Harry using his pretty words and prettier face to his own advantage, but something just feels so _off_ , and Peter feels something hot and angry stir in his stomach.

“Maybe I just need another drink”, Harry says in a low purr, leaning even closer into the boy.

The guy lets out a low growl as he traps Harry between his body and the bar counter, and he starts to press open-mouthed kisses on Harry’s neck, leaving a disgusting, spit-slicked trail. Peter finally loses it then, his body thrumming with violence as he lunges for the guy and pulls him away from Harry in one aggressive movement. He looks surprised and irritated, but Peter literally doesn’t give a shit.

“Back off, he’s _mine_ ”, Peter says with a snarl, pulling the boy closer to him by his collar. They maintain eye-contact for a while, and for one fleeting moment, the guy looks like he’s about to protest or start an actual fight, but he pulls away and flips Peter the bird instead as he storms off.

When Peter turns to look at Harry, the Osborn heir’s got an irritatingly amused twinkle in his eyes and a smirk playing on his lips. He cocks his head to the side as he says: “You’re hot when you get aggressive.”

Harry must’ve expected Peter to melt back into putty in his hands and kiss him or something, because he looks genuinely surprised when Peter fists the collar of his shirt and pulls him up.

“Shut up and follow me, Har”, Peter says, “We need to talk.”

 

14.

 For the first time in a very, _very_ long time, Harry feels uncomfortable. Peter had dragged him into the toilet without so much as a word before he unceremoniously shoved him into one of the dirty stalls and locked the door behind them. He doesn’t look at Peter, because he knows that this is sort of his fault (or, completely his fault, but he’s going to pretend he doesn’t acknowledge that), but he feels Peter’s piercing stare like needles holding him in place. Harry likes pushing buttons – that’s an irrevocable, undisputable fact, and it’s gotten him into deep shit more times than he’d admit, but with Peter, it’s… _different_.

Peter’s always been this sweet, goofy kid; floppy hair and geeky glasses and too-long limbs. Harry remembers seeing Peter again after years of being apart, and he remembers getting angry about how pure, how forgiving Peter still was, because Peter had been his eight-year-old self even at eighteen while Harry was this hate-filled anger-consumed _thing_. He had wanted to corrupt Peter’s being, to drag him down to his own filthy level and make him realize the world’s a horrible place, but Peter had always sprung back up, and Harry realized that Peter _did_ know. Peter knew that the world was disgusting and awful and cruel, but it didn’t stop him from having hope, and in hindsight, maybe that’s what made Harry want him in the first place.

Now, though, as Harry sees Peter eyeing his lithe form with calculating eyes, he feels a shiver make its way down his spine and something stir in his cock.

“Take off your clothes”, Peter says, voice low and surprisingly vacant. Harry can almost hear his heart speed up as it thumps heavily in his ears, but he obeys with clumsy fingers.

He’s got his clothes in a messy pile on the grimy tiled floor, and he winces because they’re _designer_ , but he doesn’t move to pick them up, doesn’t do anything Peter doesn’t tell him to. Harry’s used to being the more commanding, more aggressive one in their relationship, but he’s not going to deny that he finds it insanely hot when Peter bosses him around and takes control, and there’s something strangely arousing about being completely naked and bare, unable to hide behind anything, while Peter’s still fully clothed. He’s not the only one affected, evidently, because Harry can see Peter’s cock straining against the confines of his jeans, and he licks his lips in anticipation.

Peter unzips his jeans and brings his boxers down low enough to pull out his erect cock. Harry eyes it with a layer of lust dusting his gaze, the red head against Peter’s toned stomach. He knows immediately what he’s supposed to do and he drops onto his knees.

Harry kisses the head first, gently like a whisper and an apology, before he moves to drag his tongue along the slit, agonizingly slow. He makes his way closer to the base, placing feather-like kisses along Peter’s shaft, and he knows he’s being an infuriating tease and Peter’s getting impatient, but he just can’t help himself. He moves and gently tongues at the head as he laps at Peter’s precum, swirling his tongue while taking in more of Peter’s length.

He hears a growl of frustration from above him, and then there’s a hand fisted in his hair as Peter pushes his cock further into Harry’s throat. Harry takes nearly the entire thing right then, and he thanks whatever God there is up there for his experience and gag reflex (or lack thereof), because Peter is by no means small. He picks up the pace and sucks harder around Peter’s cock, tasting every part of it.

Peter’s still got his hand in Harry’s hair, and the pulls get rougher the closer he gets to his climax. Harry gets a rushed whisper as a warning before Peter holds Harry still by his hair and thrusts into his mouth. It’s rough and not completely painless, but Harry moans around Peter’s cock as he tries to keep up. He can taste the precum that’s pooled a little in his mouth and the musky scent of Peter’s cock is all he smells, but Harry feels himself get painfully hard with the rough treatment. Embarrassingly, he thinks he might come without even being touched, but Peter pulls out of his mouth with a pop before either of them do.

Harry lets out a whine and he’s about to complain when Peter quickly pulls out a condom from his pocket and properly pushes his jeans to the ground.

“Prepared, aren’t you?”, Harry says with a smirk, because even now, he still can’t resist riling Peter up.

Peter looks down at him and takes in his spit-slicked lips and his blown pupils and his mussed up hair, rolls his eyes with a _shut up_ as he rolls the condom up his semi-hard cock. He gives it a few pumps to bring it back to full hardness before he glances back at Harry who’s watching him with something akin to amusement. “Fuck,” Peter says, “Lube, shit. Wait.”

He bends back down to fish his pockets for the tiny bottle, and he ignores Harry’s raised eyebrow, because Peter comes _ready_ , damn it.

Harry gets up and plucks the bottle from Peter’s hands, coating his own fingers in the translucent liquid. Peter feels his mouth go dry as he watches Harry push his index finger into the tight ring of muscle, watches it flush pink as Harry fingers himself. Harry adds another finger quickly, and he can’t help the moan that he lets out as he pushes his fingers deeper inside his ass, stretching it and teasing himself. He lets out a gasp as he finds his prostate, and he doesn’t miss Peter’s sharp intake of breath at the sight of him finger-fucking himself.

Harry had wanted to put on a show for Peter, to make him come just by watching, but he can’t help it, he can’t take it anymore. He moans as he crooks his fingers, pressing harder each time he finds his prostate again, and he has to stop himself. His voice cracks and comes out throatier and deeper, filled with lust, “I’m ready.”

Peter stares for a beat longer, pupils blown wide with arousal, and he’s been coating his length up with lube as well. Harry takes his delayed response as hesitation, and he moans around his words as he says, “Peter, fuck me. Pete, I’m – I need you in me, please.”

Harry doesn’t beg often, if at all, and Peter feels his cock twitch against his stomach at the sight of Harry flushed and begging, hair wild and stuck to his forehead by sweat, and it’s just so rare to see Harry not put together, to see him panting and whimpering and asking him to _just fuck me_. Peter licks his lips, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He lines his cock up with Harry’s leaking hole before he pushes it in, moaning because even after stretching himself, Harry’s still so fucking tight and it feels so, _so_ unbelievably good. Harry whimpers and wraps his legs around Peter’s hips as he buries his head into Peter’s neck, trying to muffle himself. His cheeks are flushed and his breathing is erratic and loud, and Peter reminds himself to tease Harry about it later, but he can barely form the thought because Harry is so hot and he can feel Harry clenching around his dick, and it gives him a shock of pleasure.

“Fuck”, Peter says as he pulls out a little and waits for Harry to adjust. 

Harry’s got his hands fisted in the back of Peter’s shirt, and he sounds absolutely wrecked as his words tumble out in a rushed stupor, “Don’t stop, Pete, please. Need you to fuck me, need you in me.”

Peter’s cock twitches in Harry’s ass as he hears the words fall out of his mouth, almost like he can’t help himself, and he begins to thrust in earnest. Peter fucks Harry hard and good and fast, and somewhere along the lines, Harry forgot they were technically in public, forgot that his father had died, forgot that he was supposed to go back and be the CEO of one of the world’s biggest companies. He just let the pleasure wash over him as he sobbed into Peter’s neck, moaning as he feels himself near his orgasm.

Peter’s thrusts get faster and more erratic, hitting Harry’s prostate, and he massages Harry’s full ass as Harry’s thighs tremble around him. Harry sees stars and he feels like someone’s set off fireworks in his body, and Peter moves to kiss him. Harry parts his lips obediently against the press of Peter’s tongue, and feels Peter explore his mouth, tasting every bit of it as he licks and sucks. Peter pulls away and kisses Harry’s tear-streaked cheeks, and he hadn’t even realized he’d been crying, too preoccupied in his own pleasure to notice the pain that probably accompanied it.

Peter’s cock finds Harry’s prostate one more time before he moans, loud, and comes in Harry’s ass. Harry feels it fill him up and leak down his thighs, and it’s warm and sticky, but it’s completely _Peter’s_ , and it’s that thought that brings him over the edge as Harry comes over his own stomach with a whimper.

He slowly unwraps his legs and rests against the stall’s door as he tries to bring his breathing back to normal. In his post-coital bliss, he breaks into a toothy grin as Peter reaches over to push his hair out of his face. “I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“You’re still an idiot”, Peter says with a huff, but Harry can hear the laughter behind it, the affection and gentleness and something he’s scared to think of as love. “But I guess that makes us both idiots.”

“Yeah, maybe it does”, Harry says in response, leaning forward to bump his forehead against Peter’s.

 

15.

They find themselves in a McDonald’s at about 5.30 in the morning; Harry tries not to laugh (and Peter tries not to cringe) at the clearly annoyed and under-slept teenager at the counter who grumpily punches in their orders and mutters something about _crazy fucking people having breakfast at the asscrack of dawn_.

They’re seated at one of the plastic tables in the deepest corner of the fastfood restaurant, Peter with a burger and Harry with his nuggets as they listen to Gwen talk about one of her Oxford projects from Peter’s phone. Neither of them have bothered to actually find out the time difference because they are both fucking _useless_ , but Gwen sounds awake and chirpy and happy.

“Your road trip’s almost over, right?”, Gwen asks after she’s finished explaining some concept about molecular structure that neither Harry nor Peter are awake enough to understand.

“Yeah”, Peter says, “I’ll have heaps to do in college and Aunt May wants me to help her repaint the house.”

“I have to go back and deal with Oscorp now”, Harry says, and the venom and reluctance and bitterness in his voice is tangible enough that even Gwen can hear it, regardless of the countless physical barriers between them. The silence hangs over them like a cloud filled with rain, and none of them dare break it, terrified of the storm that’ll no doubt come pouring down.

Peter reaches over to lace his fingers with Harry’s, rubbing his calloused fingers against the soft skin of Harry’s hands in soothing circles. He doesn’t say anything. Harry knows what he means.

“I guess I wanted this to keep going on, you know?”, Harry says after what feels like an eternity, “It’s like magic. It’s like a dream. Driving around like idiots, drinking and fucking and doing nothing. It just seemed like – like a distant reality. I don’t know.”

“It makes you feel like you’re immortal, doesn’t it?”, Gwen says, her voice gentle and relaxing even through the phone. “Like you can do anything.”

Peter grins, because he _knows_ what Gwen’s doing. “Oh no. No, no, and no. You’re not doing this to me right now, Gwen. You’re not the Valedictorian anymore, don’t even try to give us your speech.”

Gwen sounds absolutely scandalized as she says _I’m not!_ , before she eventually bursts into giggles.

Harry just smiles along with them, even as Peter’s grip grows tighter and he holds his hand firm.

“Besides”, Peter says as he turns to properly look at Harry, and Harry swears he can actually feel his heart flutter because Peter’s gaze is soft and intense, too much and not enough, and he thinks he’s a little bit in too deep as Peter finishes: “I think we’ll be okay.”

 

 


End file.
